


Snemo Doog (Incomplete)

by palavreado



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU: Roleswapping, Gen, Unfinished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palavreado/pseuds/palavreado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A roleswap AU I started writing before I found out The Sacred And The Profane existed. I guess this one has significantly less angst?</p><p>Kireawel is a fandom angel name for Crowley, but I can't recall who came up with it, sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snemo Doog (Incomplete)

**Author's Note:**

> I probably won't finish this but I took my time to write it so here we go.

Ezra Fell was absently twirling his half-finished cigarette with one hand while flipping the page of his rather ridiculously large tome with the other when the rectangular men in suits with sullen expressions barged into his shop. He lifted his eyes and regarded them with the same expression you’d use to look at rather annoying flies.

“Ever so sorry, gentlemen, but in case the rather obvious sign on the door wasn’t enough of a dead giveaway, we’re _closed_.”

The taller of the men stepped forward in what he hoped was an intimidating gesture, “Oh, we ain’t customers, Mr. Fell.”

“Aren’t.”

“’Scuse me?”

“We _aren’t_ customers, dear. Please, you’re in a bookshop.”

“Aren’t, then. We aren’t customers.”

“Good. Very good. Now then, if you aren’t customers, then I’m sure you can leave.”

“Now, ya see, we can’t do that. We’re here for the shop.”

“Like I said; it’s closed. Come again later.”

The other man finally stepped in, “I don’t believe you fully understand, Mr. Fell. We’ve noticed your… reluctance to sell this property, even though records show it’s making not profit whatsoever.”

“No, Mr. Stewart,” Ezra smiled and for a sliver of a second the two men thought they saw sharp, pointy teeth. Mr. Stewart also wondered vaguely how he knew his name, “I don’t think _you_ understand. You might be able to coerce my neighbors into selling their properties for petty change, but I am a different case. You see, I own this place, and I’ve grown rather fond of it,” at this, Ezra stood up and started pacing absently towards the two, waving his cigarette around, “I do not intend on selling it anytime soon. Nor do I intend on selling it anytime later. Is that understood?”

“Of course, of course, but… with that cigarette of yours… and all these paper books which seem so _very_ old and so _very_ flammable,” he took a rather meaningful pause at “flammable”, “We believe it would be best if you moved out.”

Ezra’s eyes widened in amusement and the men could finally catch a glimpse at what was behind the red-tinted glasses. Clear, yellow eyes with bright red slit irises stared at the two as if they were the most interesting people in the world. Suddenly, Mr. Stewart and Mr. Jones were paralyzed in fear.

“Aha, what a very interesting theory, Mr. Stewart. And… do you know what else is surprisingly flammable?”

Mr. Stewart didn’t answer. He was too busy spontaneously combusting.

Ezra turned to Mr. Jones and gave him his most disarming smile.

“Skedaddle,” he commanded. Mr. Jones was more than happy to oblige.

\--

Ezra hadn’t meant to fall, no demon really did, but he wasn’t terribly upset about it. Heaven and Hell _were_ quite similar, in his opinion, in the sense that they were both far less interesting than Earth. Ezra had fallen for a very simple reason.

He had been intelligent.

Or, to put it more clearly, when given a sword and requested to fight, he’d raised an eyebrow and asked a single question.

_Why?_

Ezra had grown in Heaven surrounded by books. He was curious. He didn’t want to sit around and eat the steaming pile of “ineffability” bullshit God was serving all the other angels on a silver platter. He wanted decent, well-formed explanations as to why he had to fight and why Lucifer even rebelled in the first place. He was no lamb, and he had no intention of acting as such.

That short, single act of defiance had earned him a one-way trip to Hell, but in his opinion, he hadn’t really _fallen_. He hadn’t sauntered vaguely downwards, either. He’d smoothly taken the lift. And now that he was there, best to make something out of it.

To be completely honest with himself, Ezra rather liked Hell. Everyone had a clear motive there. Be it revenge, boredom, fun, none of the demons had ever replied that Lucifer’s plan was “ineffable” or “inexplicable”. This pleased him.

His first assignment had been simple enough. Stir up trouble in the Garden, create a bit of chaos. Ezra had once again asked why.

Lucifer proceeded to make a very eloquent speech about revenge. Ezra smiled, content. Then he asked how.

What he got was a vague wave of hands and a “you’re clever, you’ll figure it out,” and if there was one thing Ezra liked more than “figuring things out” it was being praised intellectually, so he set off in his, in his humble opinion, very clever disguise as a limbless thing that slithered and created exactly the kind of havoc his boss wanted. This havoc involved an apple, two gullible idiots, and a heavenly gardener who felt very, very guilty afterwards when he realized it was all partially his fault.

Ezra didn’t speak to the gardener again until nearly a century later, when he found out he’d been relocated to Earth much like himself. The exchange lasted exactly five minutes and ended with Ezra very painfully impaled on a sword.

And speaking of him…

\--

Kireawel was torn between screaming very loudly and discorporating himself. He decided on a midterm as he made the most inhuman noises with his throat and added yet another nicotine patch to his crowded forearm.

All day, his television had been nothing but crazy Evangelists and that horrible Westboro Church of Something. Weren’t that such an un-angelic thing to do, he’d have punched someone in the face by now.

In fact, he only hadn’t done it because there wasn’t anyone close enough to him. He ended up taking out his frustration on himself (God forbid he took it out on his plants, the poor things!) by opening up yet another packet of patches and sticking them haphazardly to his chest (his arms didn’t have nearly enough room left). He tried turning off the television and lying down for a bit, maybe even sleep, but then the enormous pang of guilt filled his entire being and he went back to pacing around the room, not entirely sure of what to do.

Kireawel was one of those angels who nearly-fell-but-kind-of-didn’t-at-the-last-minute, which meant Heaven really had no idea on what to do with him. They settled for letting him take care of the plants in Eden, thinking he couldn’t possibly screw anything up, but he did. Epically so.

It wasn’t exactly what he did that was the problem. It was what he didn’t do. He didn’t, for example, kill the Obviously Evil serpent that ran amok in the Garden. In fact, he’d befriended the serpent, thus giving it a free pass to Mess Things Up very, very badly.

Kireawel’s only real consolation was that he’d managed to get a great deal of stabs at it when they met again on Earth.

He’d been relocated to Earth not so much because he’d earned it, but because Heaven really didn’t know where else to put him. He worked hard, he really did; he just wasn’t very good at what he worked on.

So they sent him down to Earth, to see if he could do anything right, and sometimes he could, and sometimes he couldn’t. But Heaven was particularly pleased at all the killing blows he’d inflicted on his Adversary.

That is, until his Holy Wrath (obviously not a sin because it was Holy) died down enough for him to listen to said Adversary for more than the five minutes tolerance he gave him. It took another six discorporations, however, for Kireawel to actually agree.

The agreement, or Arrangement (capitalized for your convenience), as they’d called it, was a simple ‘I don’t mess with you, you don’t mess with me’ sort of win-win deal only Ezra could’ve possibly come up with. It was so unethical (for both sides) and so terribly… wrong, that it worked perfectly between the two, lodging itself into their existences without a second thought.

Kireawel was then distracted by the sound of the morning news. He was distracted by the sound of the morning news, because he distinctly remembered turning off the television. He flopped on his bed to face the device and stared directly into the pretty, young newscaster.

 _KIREAWEL_ she said.

Kireawel groaned and slapped his forehead in dismay. This was _not_ what he’d had in mind when he suggested using new technologies for communication. Quickly, he got up into a more suitable position and did up his buttons again, “Hi, Zacariah.”

_WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?_

He stood still for a second and then pointed sheepishly to his arms, “Um… trying to do a better job?”

_KIREAWEL, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA OF THE NUMBER OF SOULS WE’RE LOSING TO THE OTHER SIDE?_

He shook his head.

_LOTS, KIREAWEL. LOTS OF SOULS. AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING ABOUT IT, I ASK? YOU ARE INDULGING IN HUMAN COMPENSATIONS FOR LACK OF SLUMBER. KIREAWEL, YOU DON’T NEED TO SLEEP. YOU ARE AN ANGEL. ANGELS. DON’T. NEED. TO. SLEEP._

“Well, it’s not like I get a paycheck or holidays or anything, so I should at least get to sleep,” he mumbled.

_WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?_

“Um.”

_BOY, I CAN GET YOU FELLED FASTER THAN YOU CAN SAY ‘I DEMAND AN ANGELIC UNION’, SO WATCH IT._

“I…”

_DO YOUR JOB._

“Yes, sir,” and the lady on the screen went back to talking about whales. Or Wales. Kireawel wasn’t really paying attention at this point.

The real problem was, Kireawel didn’t know how exactly to do his job. Sure, he could go about spreading inspiration and love and good will, but that just wasn’t enough these days. People were just finding creative ways of damning themselves. Virtuous human beings were practically foreign, exotic beasts and it didn’t help that Heaven was upping the ante. He hadn’t gotten a decent musician in since… well, since never, really.

What Kireawel really needed was a drink. And maybe someone to rant to would be nice. Finally, he reluctantly got out of bed, grabbed his coat and shuffled out the door.

That is, until he remembered he had a car.

  --

As a general rule, angels shouldn’t really get attached to one being more than the other. They should, most definitely, not have obvious favourites. But Kireawel wasn’t that much of an angel to begin with, so he was let off with just a warning.

First and foremost on his list of “things he shouldn’t like so much” were his plants. They were the most pampered potted plants in London, maybe in the whole of England, no doubt about it. Plants reminded Kireawel of home and peace and he felt as though they were his only true friends.

Second, was his car. A roaring twenties’ Bentley, just one owner from new. It was most possibly the best car Kireawel could ever have. Of course, he could just materialize from place to place, but it was all rather messy, and, he’d admit only to himself, he’d gone native.

Besides, it was a fantastic car.

The fantastic car came to a halt minutes later in front of a bookshop in Soho.

\--

Ezra sighed as the door opened with a “bam”. He had been expecting to have a quiet day, he really had.

“Ezra!”

“Angel,” the demon drawled, closing his book, “what brings you here?”

Kireawel unfolded a newspaper and pointed to the headlines, “please tell me you had nothing to do with this, please.”

Ezra fixed his glasses and stared at the headlines, “What on earth is a Westboro?”

“It’s what I have to deal with, is what it is.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it. What’s it do?”

“It’s absolutely embarrassing! Right, you know Satanists?”

“Uh… huh…”

“Think Satanist, except a million times worse.”

“Ouch. No, sorry, I think that was the humans. I’ve spent the past few weeks in here, blissfully silent.”

Kireawel was about to reply when his eyes wandered on to a curious little pile of grey powder on the floor, “Ezra, is that ash?”

“Um. Cigarette stain.”

“It’s huge!”

“No worries, it’s just been gathering through the years, dear.”

“Why is there a piece of suit right next to it?”

“Shit.”

“Ezra!”

“They wanted my shop!”

“Tell them to go away!”

“I did!”

“So what is that?”

“I told one of them to go away. The other one was just, you know, a casualty.”

“There’s a dead man on your floor.”

Ezra waved his hand above the pile of ashes. It vanished, “There. Not anymore.”

“Ezra!”

“What? Oh, sorry, missed a spot. There, all gone.”


End file.
